Kosovo Serbs Live In Fear Of Future

LAPLJE SELO, Yugoslavia — Most of the families that populate this lonely Serb enclave in central Kosovo have been here longer than Vika Jovovic's old stone mill, and the mill has been here at least 250 years.

They have outlasted Ottoman rule and Austro-Hungarian rule. They have been overwhelmed demographically by ethnic Albanians, who outnumber them in Kosovo by about 10 to 1, and still they endure. But they are deeply worried about the future. The muffled sound of artillery in the hills is a constant reminder of the war that everyone expects as soon as the winter snow melts.

The stalled peace talks in Rambouillet, France, have done little to relieve the gloom. At the negotiations Sunday, U.S. Secretary of State Madeleine Albright warned that if the ethnic Albanians continue to balk at a deal, NATO would not bomb the Serbs.

"If this fails because both parties say no, there will not be bombing of Serbia," Albright said. After failure to meet a Saturday deadline, the talks were extended to Tuesday.

The ethnic Albanians' defiance was somewhat surprising, given the numerous guarantees favorable to them in the draft accord as it now stands. But the Albanians apparently have consolidated their negotiating formula around the rebel Kosovo Liberation Army's longtime insistence on a province-wide referendum on Kosovo's future.

Regardless of the outcome, the residents of Laplje Selo hold out little hope. They fear a resumption of hostilities, even if the parties reach an agreement, which itself would produce little of value for their community.

Every night for months the men of the village have organized themselves into armed patrols to defend against the unrealized but deeply felt threat of neighboring ethnic Albanian villages.

"Nobody is safe anymore," said Jovovic, the mill owner who is 42 but looks at least 20 years older. On a recent morning, he was breaking up ice and clearing out debris from the stream that powers his mill.

"Psychologically, we are living under tremendous pressure. But so far, no one is thinking of leaving," he said. "Where would we go?"

A simple stone church is the largest building in this community of 400 families. There are a few small shops, a well-tended cemetery and endless acres of furrowed fields now covered with snow.

The families here are deeply rooted to the land. Kosovo was the cradle of the Serbs' medieval empire, and its collapse at the hands of the Turks in the 14th Century battle of Kosovo Polje is continually evoked in Serb literature and poetry. In this century, the Kosovo Serbs have been defeated again, this time by the higher birth rates of the ethnic Albanians.

In other Serb villages, in some of the larger towns and in ethnic Albanian towns where Serbs were a minority, many Serb families have left.

Even before the Serbian leader Slobodan Milosevic began building his political career in the late 1980s by exacerbating tensions between Serbs and ethnic Albanians, and before he ordered last summer's brutal crackdown that has brought Kosovo to the brink of war, Serbs were leaving Kosovo.

At the beginning of the decade, the last time an official count was taken, Serbs barely made up 10 percent of Kosovo's population. Although no updated figures are available, and the Belgrade government is loath to admit the flight of Serbs, the half-empty Serb villages that speckle the countryside speak for themselves.

Laplje Selo, about five miles south of Pristina, the provincial capital, is one of the few exceptions.

"We decided to stay, even if it means we have to fight another Kosovo battle," said Vladimir Petkovic, 24. "This is our land. Our tombstones are here to prove it."

It so happens that Petkovic is the village tombstone maker. He inherited the business from his father, who died last August in a car accident.

Along with the other men of Laplje Selo, he takes his turn on the nightly patrols. A siege mentality has gripped the village.

"These days, I don't know if we are living in Pristina or Algeria," he said. "Darkness brings only fear and waiting for something to happen."

His mother, Ruza Petkovic, nodded in agreement. "We used to feel safe in this house. Now I see shadows around every corner," she said.

The family sat huddled in the living room of their farmhouse: Vladimir and Zorica, his bride of two weeks, a shy nursing student from Pristina; Ruza, now perpetually wrapped in the black scarf of mourning; Jelica and Mladin, the ancient grandparents.

They offer a visitor plum brandy and pour out their fears. As they talk about the uncertain future, the Petkovics seem to embody the anxieties, prejudices and deep sense of victimhood that have been so astutely manipulated by Milosevic.

"Does the world believe there is only one side to this?" demanded Ruza Petkovic. "The whole world is supporting the Albanian side, and our own state can't protect us because foreigners are interfering."

All the families in Laplje Selo have armed themselves, according to Petkovics.

This family and others here say they want a peaceful solution to the problem, but not NATO peacekeepers.

"The NATO option worries us the most," said Vladimir Petkovic. "We'll end up fighting a war against NATO too." But if the past is any guide, Milosevic will cut a deal at Rambouillet that preserves his grip on power while sacrificing the Serbs he vowed to protect.

That is how it ended in Bosnia-Herzegovina and the Krajina, with hundreds of thousands of Serb refugees.

Petkovic insisted that wouldn't happen in Kosovo.

"Kosovo is the heart of Serbia," he said. "It's irrelevant what Milosevic signs. If we are forced to leave here like people in Bosnia and the Krajina, we will not go to refugee centers, we will knock on his door and demand his head."